Marry in Haste
by rose125
Summary: Arriving at Netherfield the day of the ball, Mr Darcy is unprepared for the changes the evening will bring to his life. (Parallel story: Duty and Respect)
1. Drunk

Drunk. Fiztwilliam Darcy was undeniably drunk. It was a state he generally tried to avoid, but then again, he hadn't intended for it to happen this time either. But the strain of arriving at Netherfield the day of a ball, on top of his churning anxieties over Georgiana had got him half way there before he'd even realised it.

He'd been loath to part with her – even today, a full two months later than he'd intended to leave. She was still so fragile, so nervous… On top of that, there had been no peace to be had at Netherfield Hall; Miss Bingley's sniping, the pressure of the ball, Bingley's obvious infatuation with another grasping, provincial-

Darcy turned on his heel and strode to the balcony. Several deep breaths of nipping winter air calmed him a little, and he wondered how long he could stay outside. He doubted he'd be missed: he didn't know anyone beyond his own party, and they were occupied hosting. Surely no one had noticed him leave anyway?

He was wrong. "Snakes alive!" exclaimed a short lady, barrelling into him. "You-" she heaved for breath, "You'll do." The next five minutes were a rush of darkness and light, shouting and crowds.

Dazed from the drink and the cold and the sudden assault of the women, he only caught snatches. "LYDIA!", a matron's face. Bingley was there? Looking angry….? Cries of "honour" and "compromise" and a scornful tirade. "Lydia," again, but softer and – flustered? The woman – Lydia? – had disappeared almost as quickly as she came, but others lingered longer.

The pandemonium eventually died down, as the swirl of onlookers moved back indoors. Left alone, in the sobering cool of the night, Darcy finally had time to reflect on his first ever kiss.


	2. Impatient

Impatient. Impatient barely covered it. He was fuming. Utterly enraged. But, at the moment, impatience dragged hardest. For the debacle to be over, the well-wishers to be on their way. For him to retire to his room and nurse his grudge and his hang-over. Retire to his room? He glanced cautiously at his bride. She would come too. And – if the spectacle of their first meeting was anything to go by – he would have no peace.

He sighed, flashes of it coming back to him. The cold air outside and the hot whisky within. The collision of the lady into him, and the shock of her lips on his. He shook his head in disgust. The clamour and panic of being found. Her mother – he'd found out later it was her mother – crying and shouting and-

"Darcy." He looked up, dazed, and found Bingley shaking his hand. "I'm sorry." He swallowed, his affable nature at a loss in this circumstance. "You're a man of honour, though, and- I wish you happiness as such you can find." He finished in an embarrassed rush, and left abruptly. It was probably for the best.

Sighing, he turned once again to his bride. "Come," he said, then with some effort, "_Mrs Darcy_." The name tasted sour in his mouth.

The woman at his side flinched at the appellation, turning blank eyes up to look at him. He sighed again. "We may as well leave; there is nothing for me here."

She stared at him for a moment, then, softly, sadly even,"There was _never_ anything for me here, it seems." He was sure he had never heard so many words come out of her mouth at once, and it seemed like a strange topic to choose to exert herself on. She felt bitter, perhaps, for her family forcing her to accept the consequences of her actions.

Well, he thought, grimly. If nothing else, he _was_ a man of honour, and they'd live with her foolish impulsiveness _for better, for worse, 'til death do us part._


	3. Angry

Angry. He thought he was angry before – at the ceremony, at the breakfast in her home – but it was nothing to this. Her play at virginal innocence when she realised they were sharing a bed had disgusted him, but at least he could remain aloof. Her meek acceptance of his tirade against her family, her poverty and her person was provoking, but _t__his_, this was insupportable.

"I do care for you," she insisted. "You are my _husband._"

"Husband!" He spat the word back at her, with all the spin he could.

"Yes," She insisted gravely, "for better, for _worse._ You may not like it-" and muttering, "-heavens knows I like it little enough – but I promised before God."

"Promised what exactly?" He sneered. "To talk of love, in a marriage founded on foolishness and selfishness?"

"I want to know you," she implored. "Let me love you – let me show you-"

"NO," he roared, "HOW DARE YOU-" He stopped, choking on his lack of words. For all his anger, he had nothing to say. Did she think she could seduce him with her words of sweetness? Trick him with this new facade?

"Sir," she interjected soothingly, "You are… bitter. You are _hurt._ Certainly, there is a – a rift between us, which needs addressing. But you are burdened with many things. You need comfort, you _need_ love and support-"

He cut her off. "Do not presume to understand what I need, madam." Then shaking with barely suppressed rage, he quit the room.


	4. Repentant

Repentance. Somehow, of everything he had felt since that fateful kiss at the ball, repentance stung the most. It wrapped heavy fingers around his heart. Despair burned hotter than anger.

He'd behaved abominably, he knew. Rude and uncivil throughout their rushed courtship, sham of a wedding, and tumultuous wedding night. How had he been such a fool? He might just have spoiled his marriage forever with two weeks of sullenness. Would she forgive him?

The morning after their wedding. They needed to leave, to get into the carriage, the journey to London. But she – his wife – had stood, motionlessness, staring out the window.

"Madam." He'd said. Then a little louder, "Madam." After a pause, though it pained him, "Mrs Darcy." But still, she could have been stone for all she responded.

He sighed, stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind him. "Lydia?"

Her eyes snapped to his. The blankness in her eyes had given way to deep sorrow. "That," she swallowed, "Is not my name."

Confused, he tried again. "Lyddie?" If possible, she looked even more depressed – apologetic? Afraid? "I'm sorry." He tried to be gentle, tried to undo the boorishness of last night. No longer livid and drunk, he was ashamed of what he had been.

"No," her voice was dull, and pained, "_I'm_ sorry."

He stared at her.

"It was-" she shuddered, swallowed, and tried again. "It _was_ Lydia. She-" then angry, "foolish, foolish Lydia! It was a dare, some kind of joke – kiss a stranger, get away with it." She stopped, abruptly, heaving with emotion. The most animated Darcy had seen her.

"But you-" he broke off in confusion.

She sighed, her sorrow returning. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You are an honourable man, you tried to do the right thing… and had your opportunity stolen."

Darcy held his breath.

"My mother – she is not usually so sly – managed to create a great confusion when she found you. No one was sure what had happened. I suppose," she smiled wryly, "you heard a great many rumours involving various ladies, gentlemen and acts of seduction."

He blushed, and she sighed apologetically. Then, continued, "Lydia was sent to town the next day. She is," she struggled for words, "headstrong… spoiled – she is but fifteen."

She did not seem to notice his flinch at the thought of Georgiana, fifteen herself. Instead, she continued, imploringly, "She could not be made to marry you. She is so young."

He tried to soften his face, to alter his demeanour in any way which would reduce her quaking and anxiety. "I was drunk," he began apologetically. She nodded her head slowly.

"It was not your fault," her voice, now a hoarse whisper, betrayed the pent-up emotion she carried, "my mother saw the chance to marry off one of her daughters. I look the most like Lydia, I'm older, and," she sighed, "my mother never liked me, and it suited her to marry me off to an unknown country gentleman from a far county."

"I'm sorry." Mr Darcy was troubled. "You have been badly used, you have more right to sorrow than I knew."

"No!" She held out a hand imploringly, "it is you who have been badly used. I- I was a coward. I allowed you to marry me, thinking you were doing the honourable thing, when you were, in fact, throwing yourself away."

"No," he tried to infuse gentleness into his grave tone, "_you_ have been honourable above all; sacrificing yourself for your sister, refusing to complain, bearing all my ill-temperedness with grace. Would that I could one day deserve such a wife."

She smiled tentatively, and, emboldened, he reached for her hand. "Come, we have much to talk of, on our journey to London, my lady."

"You know my name." She whispered. "You pledged yourself to me."

He did. The drunken memories of other people calling out fell away, and he recalled the softness of her hand in his, the bitterness with which he had mindlessly repeated his vows. "Elizabeth," he said her name like a tender caress, hoping to erase what he could of the last two days, two weeks even.

She smiled up at him, and nodded in affirmation, "Lizzy."

"Mrs Darcy," he returned her smile, and – giddy with the delight of their tentative resolution – he kissed her forehead.

* * *

Thanks for reading! I know my fics are a bit abrupt at the moment, and I'd love help developing my style. I'm planning to use this as a backbone for a second fic: a longer version of the same events, but from Lizzy's POV. Any feedback (positive or negative) is very gratefully received!


	5. Hopeful

Hopeful. Hopeful like he hadn't been in months. Elizabeth's presence in their lives had been like the gentle spring sunshine, bringing new life to all it touches. She had begun so soft, so careful – exactly what Georgiana needed. But now, teasing, light, laughter. He smiled.

Elizabeth and Georgiana lived their lives in parallel now – duets on the piano, easels next to one another, reading aloud from the same volumes of verse. It warmed his heart to see Georgiana flourish so, but he couldn't help the whispered wonder, "will it ever be my turn? When will _our_ lives be parallel?" He longed so deeply for what he'd seen his parents share, and even, lately, allowed himself to dare hope that it might yet be possible.

"My sweet," The endearment was usually applied to Georgiana. Her hand was rubbing his shoulder, and he realised belatedly there were tears running down his cheeks.

He sighed, just as she did. _Lives lived in parallel_ he thought bitterly. She brushed his cheeks gently. "Why so sombre," she asked, tenderly, "in this season of joy?"

"We are not-" he grimaced, uncertain of what he was trying to say. "My parents-" he held back a sob, for all the world feeling like a lost child.

"Oh, my poor sweet love," She eased him into a chair, rubbing small comforting circles on his back. Was it just a force of habit, to respond to tears which such words of fondness? He hoped, dearly hoped, she might – even just a very little – mean what she said.

Recovering himself, he continued, "When my parents were alive, it _was_ a season of joy. Now," he laughed mirthlessly, "I have brought you here to this strange and cold place, Georgiana is living in the shadow of disaster, what kind of joy can a ramshackle group like us find?"

The hand on his back stilled. "I rather thought- I hoped-" What was that quake in her voice? She started to run her fingers through his hair, and – lost in the sensation – he missed whatever she was saying. She seemed to be talked to herself, anyway, for a moment later she began again, more resolute, this time. "We _will_ have a joyful Christmas. What is Christmas if not a celebration for those who are weak and weary?"

He turned his head to look at her, wishing, as soon as he did, that he had not: the hand withdrew from his hair. "Christmas is a time of charity, dependence and… grace. Isn't that what our family needs?" She was frowning slightly at the floor.

He smiled now, in earnest. _Our family –_ how glorious. "_You_ are what this family needs." He cupped her face with his hand, bringing her eyes to his. "Whatever would we do without you?"

* * *

Thanks so much for all your kind feedback! If you're enjoying this, do follow the parallel story Duty and Respect (Lizzy POV) - I'll be updating that one for the next few bits I do, then the two stories should progress at the same rate giving you Darcy and Lizzy POV in near tandem. Again, all comments welcome: I love your comments and questions!


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